


See, Don't See; Hear, Don't Hear; Know, Be Clueless

by Diary



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Bechdel Test Pass, Canon Character of Color, Canon Lesbian Character, Cousins, Detective Rosaline Capulet, Female Protagonists, Friendship/Love, Inspired by Law & Order (TV), Interracial Relationship, Late Night Conversations, Lawyer Romeo Montague, Morally Ambiguous Character, Nursing Student Livia Capulet, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Racism, Romance, Sister-Sister Relationship, Women Being Awesome, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 11:29:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11827824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diary/pseuds/Diary
Summary: An AU largely centred on Detective Rosaline and her interactions with her friends, family, and the Montague cousins. WIP.





	See, Don't See; Hear, Don't Hear; Know, Be Clueless

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Still Star-Crossed. 
> 
> Author's Notes: Law and Order is probably more accurate in it's depiction of both American law and law enforcement than this fic is. I make no claims to accuracy in regards to either.

Detective Rosaline Capulet has started to despise anyone with the surname Montague on principal.

Sitting slouched across from her in the interrogation room, Benvolio Montague taps his fingers to the tune of some Eminem song.

Rosaline hates Eminem’s music and once made the mistake of saying this where her artiste suspect could hear her. 

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable doing Sieg Heil Viktoria or some other old German song?”

Giving her a smug look she’d love to smack off him, he responds, “So that you can use it as evidence against me? Look, in the technical sense of I have a burr cut, you might be able to call me a skinhead, but I’m not a neo-Nazi or any other type of white supremacist, Capulet.”

“Detective Capulet,” she corrects.

“In answer to your question, though, I’m sure there are plenty of old German, non-Nazi approved songs that would be fun to learn. What a shame I’m stuck in here instead of out there learning them. Again.”

“A skinhead who hangs around neo-Nazis and once made a swastika necklace, I can’t imagine why one might label you as likewise.”

“I made a swastika necklace for a nine-year-old Hindu girl with cancer. Hindus had the swastika long before Hitler ever got hold of it, as a symbol of good. There really aren’t many, if any, places around here who sell that symbol that would be welcoming to brown people, and her parents were afraid ordering one online might somehow get them in trouble. I decided that giving a sick kid a comforting symbol of her faith was more important than the fact a dictator of a foreign country once slapped it on his flags.”

Rosaline knows she has got to learn to stop engaging Montague.

The thing about him is: He can dance around the truth almost as well as he can sculpt, draw, and tap out tunes, but she’s yet to catch him in an outright lie. Therefore, when he says something plain, she can be reasonably sure he’s telling the truth.

He tends to reserve doing so, however, for when he knows it’ll embarrass and/or make her look bad in front of others.

“Fair points,” she grudgingly concedes. “The skinhead aspect and hanging around Neo-Nazis, however-” She gives him a pointed look.

“Didn’t your partner once have a burr cut? I’m assuming the aforementioned nine-year-old would be exempt due to her race, but what about all the white people who also have cancer? Soldiers? Ones who shave their head in solidarity of sick loved ones? I could go on, but let’s start in those general areas.”

She takes a deep breath. “You’re clever, Montague. I notice you have yet to give a good reason for what you’re always doing around a group of Neo-Nazis and Klansmen we have on a watch list. You being kind to a little kid and having a black cousin who’s always bailing you out doesn’t change the fact you obviously have some views you don’t want the police to know about. But I do know. I see you clearly.”

Giving an amused scoff, he replies, “Don’t forget there are Klanswomen, now, too. Speaking of my cousin, do you know where Romeo is? I swear, if I’m late for an appointment, I’m going to kill him, and go ahead and try to slap me with a hate crime, Capulet. He’s my cousin, and that gives me the right to viciously murder him when he lets me down.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she’s compelled to say.

In truth, past dealings with her own cousin makes her somewhat inclined to agree with him, but along with police brutality, agreeing with aloud Montague is one line she’ll never cross.

There’s a knock, and the man in question comes in. “Sorry, I’m late, I had-” Pausing, he looks between them and groans. “Benvolio, what did we agree about saying anything to the police before I could arrive? And Detective Capulet, you know that my client has not waived representation-”

“We were just talking about hair styles and the necklace I made for Ariona,” Montague interjects.

Pausing, Romeo studies them, and then, frowns. “Let me guess, when you illegally raided my cousin’s apartment, you found the sketches for it?”

“That was an honest mistake,” Rosaline quietly says. “And I found the sketches and several pictures, too.”

She wishes there had been even one of the little kid wearing it. More than this, she wishes a judge’s aide hadn’t fed Paris bad info. It truly was an honest mistake, but Romeo had gotten the mayor herself involved and came too-close for comfort to getting several badge’s taken away, including Rosaline and Paris’s.

“The room, please, detective,” is Romeo’s tight response.

Turning the camera off, she tosses him the key to the room behind the two-way glass.

“And the handcuffs,” he orders.

“It’s fine if she wants to leave them on,” Montague says. “She seems to enjoy putting them on me and seeing me in them, and I imagine-”

“You are not helping things,” Romeo snaps.

…

“Hey.” Paris hands her a cup of tea. “I wondered where you were, but judging by the look on your face, I’d say you brought in our Montague friend.”

“He was sitting nearby as a group of skinheads defaced a park bridge with swastikas and a charming treatise on what should be done to certain groups of people.”

“That’s not going to be enough,” Paris quietly notes.

“Yes, I’m well aware,” she snaps.

Taking a breath, she says, “Sorry.” She rubs her face. “I know. I probably shouldn’t have arrested him. But eventually-”

For a little over a year, she’s been telling herself ‘eventually’. And for a little over a year, she’s wholeheartedly _believed_.

The complete truth is: She doesn’t know what Montague is guilty of. She doesn’t have a concrete idea on what he might one day do.

She does know he is dangerous. She does know, if possible, he must be stopped before this danger fully unleashes itself. She does know, if it has in the past, he deserves to be punished for it.

“Eventually,” Paris gently prods. “Come on, Rosaline. Don’t start wavering.”

“Eventually, justice will come for him.”

One of the hardest lessons she’s ever had to learn in life is the cold, unrelenting fact that justice doesn’t always come for the bad, but despite her having learned this, she’s determined, Montague will not be one of the ones spared.

“Ah, Mister Montague,” Paris greets.

She looks over to see Romeo coming towards them.

“Detective Mantua,” Romeo politely responds. Turning fully to her, he says, “You arrested a bystander to a group committing civil disobedience. That-”

“Civil disobedience? They were-”

“Politicised graffiti falls under the definition of civil disobedience.”

She scoffs. “I can understand you defending your cousin. Perhaps, you truly believe whatever reason he gives you for always being around such people. Or maybe, you know the truth, but he’s still your cousin, the boy you grew up with, shared your room with, who gives you presents every year and who took you out celebrating when you passed the bar. But to defend _them_ -”

“There are many responses I could give to that. But I’ll simply stick to: Stating what the law is doesn’t necessarily mean defending the rightness of it, and in this instance, I’m not defending them or any of their actions. I’m pointing out my client was a bystander to those actions, and the law is very clear, detective, that bystanders are not required to intervene in any way when witnessing any crime, act of civil disobedience, and/or emergency. Now, are you going to go uncuff my cousin, or do I need to call your captain and file a formal complaint for-”

“I’ll go get your cousin, counsellor,” Paris interjects.

 …

When Rosaline gets home, she hears, “Hey, babes. Your couch has been feeling neglected, and so, I thought I’d keep it company for a night or two!”

Half-sighing and half-laughing, Rosaline goes to find Isabella in the laundry area. “You and Helena didn’t have a fight, did you?”

“Oh, no,” Isabella assures her. “It turns out being girlfriend to a mayor sometimes means your girlfriend has to go out of town for the weekend, and you know how much trouble I have sleeping in bed without her.”

Relieved, Rosaline nods. “Well, as long as you don’t start your dreadful kicking, you’re welcome to sleep with me.” She kisses Isabella’s forehead. “You couldn’t go with her?”

“I have a massive deadline by this Sunday.”

“Ah.”

Sometimes, Rosaline is afraid Romeo is going to successfully go after her, Isabella, and Mayor Thompson for conflict of interest and, perhaps, more insidiously, for deliberately using their respective positions to help one another at the expense of their sworn duties.

The fact none of them never would wouldn’t matter, she knows. Isabella is a political journalist in a relationship with their town’s mayor, Rosaline and Isabella have been best friends since childhood, and Helena literally signs Rosaline’s paycheques.

“I know that look,” Isabella says. “Which Montague is it? Or is it both?”

“Both,” she confirms.

“Well,” Isabella stands up, “put them out of your head. I’ve called our baby sister, and she’s free for the night. I’m taking you both out for dinner, and paying, and you will not argue.”

“Yes, I will. Isabella-”

“No,” Isabella firmly declares. “Rosaline, if we have to tie you up, gag you, and do an IV drip, we will. Now, get changed. Livia will be here in an hour.”

“Isabella, really-”

“Tell me, Rosaline,” Isabella interrupts in a deceptively sweet voice, “do you doubt we could do the above?”

No, she knows how well her sister is doing in nursing school, and when Isabella was in girl scouts with them, Isabella got several badges for her skills with ropes. Going further, she suspects, but thankfully, has no direct confirmation Isabella and Helena’s bedroom activities might occasionally involve bondage.

“What if I already have plans?”

“If your plans involve eating a TV dinner, catching up on paperwork, and crashing out in front of your laptop, you can get back to your regular schedule tomorrow. If you have a date or something actually exciting, I’ll be happy to either feed your sister one of your dreadful TV dinners and crash out with her in front of your TV or go somewhere else with her.”

“Must you be such a snob about my diet? Most people don’t spend a thousand something dollars a week so they can make gourmet meals.”

“I don’t spend anywhere near a thousand dollars, and if you’d let me draw you up a meal plan and- Wait. Stop trying to- Go get changed,” Isabella firmly orders.

Admitting defeat, Rosaline says, “I’m taking a shower, first.”

…

Their aunt and uncle, the former especially, never particularly wanted to take them in after their parents died, but when Livia started nursing school, their uncle did firmly insist on renting an apartment for Livia.

Rosaline knows this is what Livia wants, and she does agree some independence is good for her sister. However, part of her can’t help but worry. The apartment isn’t exactly in a good part of town, and for so long, she simply assumed Livia would move in with her once Livia turned eighteen.

They get there, and Livia immediately hugs her. “Rosaline! It’s so nice of you to finally come out with us. You work too hard.” Hugging Isabella, she continues, “Izzy! Thank you for getting her to come.”

“Livia.” Isabella kisses her cheek, and taking her hand, says, “Watch her protest that she doesn’t work too hard.”

“Well, I don’t,” Rosaline retorts.

Looking at her, they both shake their heads and start walking to the car.

…

Isabella insists on taking them to some French restaurant with a name Rosaline can’t pronounce.

Halfway through the appetizers, which she will never understand the concept of, she’s startled to see Paris walking by.

Standing, she asks, “Paris?”

Turning, he gives her a sad smile, and she notices how dejected his stance is. “Rosaline, hi.” He nods towards the others. “Miss Capulet. Miss- I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

Smiling, Isabella stands and offers her hand. “Isabella Princeton.”

“Right, Miss Princeton. Paris Mantua.”

“I didn’t think this was your sort of place,” Rosaline says, and though she didn’t mean anything by the statement other than the fact she knows Paris practically lives on steak and potatoes, based on the looks Livia and Isabella give her, it came out differently.

“Like you, it isn’t,” Paris good-naturedly replies. “But whereas your friend and lovely sister bothered to show up, the lady I planned to meet just sent me a text saying she had other obligations for the night.” He sighs. “I shouldn’t be annoyed. I just wish she’d been able to tell me before I spent ten minutes sitting in the centre of the room.”

Rosaline gives him what she hopes is a sympathetic smile.

She and Paris work well together, but they aren’t friends. Therefore, it isn’t her place to say anything about who he dates. If it were, she’d point out he has a tendency to get involved with women with expensive tastes, and while he’s happy to devote a large part of his paycheque to a fancy restaurant every few months and a nice piece of jewellery on birthdays and Christmas, his girlfriends tend to end things when it becomes clear he can’t give them expensive gifts on a regular basis.

“Would you care to join us, Detective Mantua?”

“Ah, no, thank you for the offer, Miss Princeton, but-”

Coming over, Livia puts her hand on his arm. “If you don’t have anything else planned, please, join us. Rosaline’s told me so much about you, Detective Mantua. It’d be nice to finally get to know you in person.”

Paris looks over, and Rosaline nods.

“That’d be wonderful,” he says. “Thank you.”

They make room for him, and Livia continues, “I’m Livia. In case you didn’t know.”

“I knew,” Paris assures her with a smile. “Livia, not short for Olivia, and never, ever Livvie. Your sister’s told me.”

A brief look flashes across Livia’s face, and Rosaline feels a mixture of sympathy and guilt. Of course, she’s told her partner all about her baby sister without much thought to the fact her sister is a grown woman, now, but Livia is a grown woman, now. It frustrates her when Rosaline’s friends and colleagues treat her as if she’s still a young girl they need to look out for and humour for Rosaline’s sake.

However, she sees Paris recognise this, and he continues, “I’ve heard you’re in nursing school. My great-grandmother was a nurse during War World One, but unfortunately, she died before I ever thought to ask much about it. Tell me, is there a certain field of nursing you’re specialising in?”

Giving a flustered, beaming look around the table, Livia shyly answers, and Paris listens attentively but without any hint of patronisation.

There’s a reason why, aside from Montague, Paris is often the one to talk to suspects and victims alike, Rosaline reflects.

…

After they’re all finished, Isabella and Paris begin arguing over who should pay for who’s food, and if she weren’t afraid it might last all night, Rosaline would find the two such polite, determined people going head-to-head fascinating to watch.

“Rosaline, if you’d like me to take the front seat so you can stretch out in the back, that’s fine,” Livia quietly tells her.

Squeezing her hand, Rosaline says, “Thank you.”

Paris looks over. “You all came together?”

“Rosaline is kindly letting me stay over for a few days while my girlfriend is out of town, and so, I thought it only right I treat her and Livia to dinner.”

Nodding, Paris says, “I’ll agree, that does sound fair, but I’m not doing anything for you, Miss Princeton. I’ll pay for my own. With that settled,” he looks between Rosaline and Livia, “if you’d like, I could give you a ride, Miss Capulet. I know Rosaline plans to come in early tomorrow morning, and my place is closer to your apartment than hers.”

“Livia,” her sister corrects.

“Not settled,” Isabella declares.

“Rosaline?” Livia looks at her.

As nice as the meal was, Rosaline simply wants to get home as soon as possible, but she isn’t sure what to say. Giving Livia permission or making the decision for her- Livia will resent her for it. Likewise, she doesn’t want her partner to feel obligated to go out of his way for her or her sister just because they work together.

“Perhaps, you could show me those World War pictures,” he adds.

After a little more arguing over whether Paris will be paying for his own meal or not and who will and won’t be contributing to the tip, Rosaline puts Livia in the front seat of Paris’s car and gratefully climbs in the backseat of her own.

…

Paris comes into the breakroom. “Rosaline.”

She looks up from her tea. “You’re too cheerful this morning,” she grumbles.

“I don’t expect cheerful, but I think you’re going to find the morning much more tolerable in a minute.”

Making a vague noise of encouragement, she gestures for him to sit.

“I found out there were security cameras at a local convenience store near the park those skinheads were in. I checked on the possibility of them catching anything, and-” He sets down his tablet. “Watch this.”

…

Rosaline pounds on Montague’s door.

He has thin walls, and she can hear there’s someone else inside with him.

A woman opens the door, and Rosaline tries hard not to judge her. Of course, Montague would go for a delicate, blonde woman with light, blue-gray eyes. She’d expect nothing less from him, but deciding right off the bat this woman is a white supremacist or even knows about Montague’s views is unfair to her.

“Who is- Capulet.”

As if the woman answering in a shirt and panties wasn’t enough, Montague is shirtless.

“Detective Capulet, and you-”

He walks away, and the woman steps aside.

Biting back a groan, Rosaline comes inside.

Grabbing a shirt, Montague tugs it on. “Detective Capulet, this is Stella. She works at a sheltered for battered women. They mainly help black and other women of colour,” he pointedly finishes.

Stella looks between them. “Yes, I do. I’m not sure why you- we mostly just focus on helping any woman who comes to us. Uh, is there a problem, detective? We thought we had the music at a normal volume, but with how thin these walls are-”

“Are you aware this man is a white supremacist, ma’am?”

“So you’re determined to believe,” Montague huffs out.

“Benvolio? No, there must be a mistake. He helps out at the shelter, and he volunteers at the local paediatric ward. Not that it- his cousin is biracial, and they’re very close.”

Rosaline doesn’t have time for this. “There was a security camera near the park, Mister Montague. You tossed one of those skinheads defacing the bridge a can of spray paint, and it looked as though you were giving directions and feedback to them.”

Rolling his eyes and sighing, he grabs a nearby belt, tucks his shirt in, and slips the belt through the loops of his pants. “Meaning I’m under arrest. Stella, I’m so sorry about this. Reschedule?”

“I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into this time, and I’m assuming this is one of those times I don’t want to know?”

He nods.

“I’ll call Romeo for you. Assuming I’m free to go?” She looks at Rosaline.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Maybe he can set me up with one of his nice pro-bono friends,” Stella adds.

Rosaline covers her mouth to make sure, if a smile does break through, it can’t be seen.

Before she can stop him, Benvolio has wrapped his hands around Stella’s arms. “Hey.” He moves his head until she makes eye contact. Grinning slightly, he says, “I’ll be out soon. I promise, I’ll make this up to you.”

Reaching up, Stella gives him a soft kiss, shakes her head, grabs her skirt and shoes, and slips them on as she leaves.

“Benvolio Mon-”

“Before you start, I need to find my shoes.”

Supremely irritated, she demands, “What?”

“My shoes, Capulet.” He gestures down to his bare feet. “You’re not going to take me in without shoes, are you?”

Romeo would have a field day.

“Hands where I can see them,” she demands.

He obediently clasps his hands together in front of his stomach. 

“Where are they?”

He shrugs.

Looking around the tiny, messily cluttered apartment, she tries not to sigh.

Thankfully, however, it doesn’t take long to find them.

The fact they somehow got stuck under the refrigerator- isn’t something she needs to spend any time thinking about.

After putting them on, he stands and links his hands together behind his head.

Putting the handcuffs on, she begins, “Benvolio Montague, I’m arresting you on the charges of…”

…

In the interrogation room, she, Paris, Romeo, and Montague all watch the black-and-white security footage.

On the bench, Benvolio is sketching when the skinheads arrive. Putting his notepad, pens, and pencils away, he watches them.

Then, a spray can rolls over towards him, and picking it up, he tosses it to one of the skinheads, proceeds to call out to them, and makes a few gestures with his hands and arms.

“You still have absolutely no case,” Romeo declares.

“Actually, we do,” Rosaline says. “You’re right that bystanders are under no obligation to stop a crime or provide help to a victim. However, once he returned a tool of a crime to a person committing a crime, that he clearly knew was committing a crime and that the tool was being used in the process of, he became, at best, an accessory and, at worst, an explicit participant.”

Romeo rubs his forehead. “You do both realise how flimsy this is? He tossed a spray can to someone. A spray can that wasn’t his, to be clear. And after he did this, he talked to some fellow men in a park.”

“He gave a group of people committing civil disobedience a tool to help them further commit it. Or if you prefer, he returned a tool they were already using.”

Sighing, Romeo says, “Fine. If you’re determined to do this, charge him. In the spirit of fairness, I’m going to argue my client didn’t know what those men were doing fell under the category of civil disobedience, making him an unwilling accessory. Unwilling accessories are sometimes granted victim status, aren’t they, detectives?”

“Of course, he knew!”

Two sets of Montague eyes look at her.

“If you don’t mind me asking, can you prove that, detectives? If so, how?”

Before Rosaline can compile an answer, Romeo continues, “My client has gotten permission before to draw and paint on certain buildings and bridges for him and children at the hospital he often volunteers at. Different parts of town have differing definitions of what does and doesn’t constitute vandalism, graffiti, etc. Now, we’re all aware ignorance of the law is not an excuse, but it can be a mitigating factor. How was he to know that these gentleman didn’t have permission or that the area they were in didn’t take a more tolerant view of their artwork than other parts of town?”

Underneath the table, Rosaline clenches her fist.

To hear him say ‘tolerant’ and ‘artwork’ in reference to-

“There were clear signs in the park warning about graffiti,” she calmly says.

Romeo looks at his cousin. “That’s true. If you’re asked if you saw those signs, what will your response be?”

“I plead the fifth amendment on the grounds my response might incriminate me.”

“Invoke, not plead,” Romeo says. “Don’t give a reason. Add ‘respectfully.’”

Montague nods. “I respectfully invoke my fifth amendment privilege against self-incrimination.”

“Better.” Romeo glances between her and Paris. “Not quite there, yet, but if the detectives here choose to proceed, we’ll have it worked out by the time you need to.”

She stands, and Paris follows suit. “If you’ll excuse us, please,” she grits out.

…

In the hallway, she leans against the wall. “We don’t have a case.”

“We have a very shaky possibility of one.”

“What do you think we should do?”

Leaning beside her, he answers, “It’s your call. I’ve never had the same feeling about Montague as you have, but I trust your instincts. If you think this might help, let’s do it. If not, we’ll get him another day, one way or another.”

“Damn it,” she mutters.

…

A week after she decided not to try to press charges against Montague, she and Paris have a testimony about a different case at the county court house.

They drive the squad car over, dismantle and lock their guns in their lockboxes, and lock the lockboxes in the trunk of the car.

“After we’re done, how about a burger,” Paris asks.

She smiles. “We can go to Petey’s Steakhouse.”

“Really? You sure?” At her nod, he grins. “Have I mentioned you’re the best partner ever?”

Pulling out her wallet, she hands him some money. “In that case, go get a soda from that discriminatory machine. I’m going to the bathroom.”

The courthouse has one soda machine. It will accept the money of Paris, Romeo, Livia, Isabella, and on one occasion, her cousin, Juliet, but it has never, ever let her buy a drink. It’s always absolutely refused to take the money until someone else took it from her and inserted it, or there’s been three occasions when it outright stole her money.

…

After she leaves the bathroom, she feels her good day rapidly slipping away at the sight of Montague near the basement.

“Montague. What are you doing here?”

Looking over, he gives her a neutral smile. “Capulet. I’m meeting Romeo for lunch.”

“Here,” she sceptically replies.

“He does occasionally do business here. We’re going to walk down to that taco truck after he’s done and sit in the square.”

“What are you doing near the basement?”

Shrugging, he sarcastically replies, “I snuck in via the window down there so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the metal detectors going off and having to relinquish my weapon.”

Rosaline knows Benvolio doesn’t have any guns, or rather, she knows he hasn’t in the past, but for all she knows, he has recently gone out and gotten one. Likewise, Benvolio has plenty of things that could be used as weapons but, to her knowledge, have only ever been used for art projects and food preparation.

“I’m going to need you to come over here,” she says.

He follows her away from the basement.

“If-”

“There you are,” Paris says. Coming over, he hands her the soda. “Mister Montague.”

“I need to talk to you,” she says. To Montague, she orders, “Don’t move.”

Leading Paris over to the basement, she starts to say, “He might-”

There’s a scream, Montague hits the wall as a man with a knife pushes past him, and Paris is standing in front of her. “Police-”

She catches Paris as he falls down, there’s blood mixing with the soda, but she can’t, in her pocket is a Taser, she just has to get Paris safely down and get it

“I’ll kill you!”

A shot rings out, and she vaguely sees Montague _does_ have a gun, and it was a straight, clean shot through the back of the head, but he’s still aiming the gun at the dead man.

“Security!”

Officers with Tasers appear, and it’s all so fast and slow how Montague gets on his knees, pushes the gun over to her, and clasps his hands together behind his head.

For lack of knowing what else to do, she picks up the gun (she should have on gloves), unloads and makes the gun safe, and hands it to a nearby officer with plastic bags. Beside her, someone is applying aide to Paris (he’s still alive and conscious), and Montague has been handcuffed and is being stood up.

“Benvolio!”

Romeo appears, and she barely has time to register his presence before she sees him taking in the scene, realising what it means, and then, he’s saying, “No, wait. He’s a federal agent.”

The words are almost nonsensical, and she wants things to make sense so badly, she could cry.

“Benvolio,” he prods.

Glancing over at her, Montague sighs, focuses back on the men flanking him, and says, “Code…”

This is truly happening, some part of her realises.

One of the officers points his phone at Montague. “Look straight ahead. There won’t be a flash.”

A few seconds later, his phone dings, and he nods to the other officers. “Special Agent Montague.”

As soon as the cuffs are off, Montague and Romeo are hugging. “You’re alright,” Romeo breathes out. “Come on, let’s sit down. You’re alright.”

She watches Romeo guide them onto a bench, and Montague’s eyes graze over her and the dead body. Following them, Romeo squeezes his neck and kisses his head. “I know. Everyone’s okay, and you will be, too.”

…

Paris is going to be okay, provided Livia doesn’t decide to kill both him and Rosaline, and Rosaline hasn’t been able to gather much about anything else.

Montague is FBI. He was undercover. Romeo obviously knew, but whether he was _supposed_ to know or not- the answer could go either way.

The attacker killed a judge and put a clerk into a coma before getting to them. Orlino Ruspoli was his name. If anyone has any idea why he did what he did, they aren’t sharing it with her.

After her captain orders her to go home and tops the command off with a threat to call both Livia and Isabella, Rosaline finds herself in the art and crafts section of the store.

Montague might be a giant pain in the ass, and she might still be suspicious of his true feelings in regards to her race, but he did stop a man who was advancing on her with a deadly weapon. He did ensure Paris didn’t suffer fatal harm.

Acknowledging all this, however, doesn’t give her any idea what might be an appropriate thank you gift. He has all the three-dollar art supplies he could possibly want. A tie or socks are safe gifts to give a man, but nevertheless, neither seems appropriate in this circumstance.

Isabella or Livia might know, but she can’t call either of them. Livia will continue her tirade of what was she thinking, what was Paris thinking, and speaking of thinking, Livia has given a lot of thought to the fact Rosaline should become a lawyer or a librarian. Isabella thinks Rosaline is safely tucked into bed and catching up on some of her audiobooks, and as such, she’s promised not to call unless there’s an emergency.

She could talk to Romeo, she supposes, but-

For all she knows, Montague already has Photoshop, and if he doesn’t, she doesn’t even know if he’d want it. She just knows many creative people do, and also, buying it would be a severe drain on her resources.

Suddenly, she remembers Stella.

Rosaline used to date Isabella’s brother, Escalus, and despite disapproving, Isabella always gave him gift cards to Rosaline’s favourite restaurants and bookstores.

She can find out what sort of food Stella likes and give Montague a hefty gift card to such a restaurant.

…

She has what she needs to say all worked out, and then, Montague opens the door in nothing but a towel.

“Hey, I was thinking-” He takes her in. “Not my girlfriend. Or even my cousin.”

“No,” she agrees. “Um, may I-”

He’s already walking away.

Following him inside, she curses Juliet for making her watch a James Bond marathon and for enlisting her in helping hide magazines of glistening, muscled model men from Juliet’s parents and their maid.

She’d curse Montague for largely resembling them, but until he actively does something to irritate her, she will be reasonable.

“Why did you sneak into the courthouse with your gun?”

Or I can give him a reason and expedite him kicking me out, she thinks. That works, too.

“I don’t have any clean clothes,” he informs her.

Before she can work out her confusion enough to respond, he continues, “Ruspoli was a hired killer. Today wasn’t like him. He’s always been quick and clean. Worse, I don’t know who the target was. But I did know he was going to be there today. No one has been able to prove- no one was able to prove he was a hitman, but I wasn’t going in without my gun.”

“Because, you knew Romeo was going to be there,” she realises. Waiting outside for Romeo would have been easier, especially due to the fact, with his gun, he’d have to find a way to sneak back out, but if she found out her sister were in a building with a professional killer, she’d damn well come in with her gun in tow, too, even if it meant going through a basement window.

He nods. 

She believes this, but some part of her also wonders- it’s not right to have vague suspicions Montague might be rogue or dirty, she knows. She truly does.  

Old habits die hard, she supposes.

“I didn’t come here to bother you. I was just-”

His phone buzzes, and when he grabs it, she sees disappointment settle on his face.

“Stella cancelled,” she tentatively inquires.

“Yep.” Sighing, he goes over to a laundry basket. “And of course, literally all my clothes are either in the washer or dirty. This is my life.”

Those four words and that tone, she realises, are exactly what she’s been trying to inwardly verbalise about- well, everything of late.

Smiling a little, she starts to- whatever she was going to say is lost when she sees what he’s pulled up on his phone.

Resisting the urge to smack the phone out of his hands, she demands, “Your girlfriend cancels, and you decide to go on Tinder? You have a Tinder profile despite having a girlfriend?”

“She and I met on Tinder,” he responds. “Furthermore, we have an open relationship. I wanted more, was more into her than she was me. But she didn’t, and so, yeah, given the day I’ve had-” He shrugs.

“Fair enough,” she sighs. Taking a deep breath, she says, “Look- Special Agent Montague, I just came to say thank you.”

“Just doing my job, Detective Capulet, but you’re welcome.”

She doesn’t think she’s ever going to get used to the idea of Benvolio Montague being Special Agent Montague.

He grabs a white spray bottle labelled ‘vinegar’, and when he starts digging clothes out of the basket, she realises what he’s thinking.

“That’s not going to work very well. Um, look, there’s a convenience store down the block. How about I go get you a shirt and socks? I’ll see if they have pants, too.”

There- probably isn’t any underwear underneath that towel, she realises, but if he also needs some, he can go buy his own.

He’s not a Neo-Nazi, but she has a feeling his real personality is largely similar to the one he’s been presenting for over a year, and therefore, she will not think about him in-

She decides it might finally be time to let Isabella set her up on a date.

To her surprise, he looks at her as if she’s a just offered to do something life-saving. “Really? Thank you.” He heads over to his bed and grabs his wallet. “I’m not sure if I have any money, but my card-”

Walking towards the door, she says, “Don’t worry, it’s on me.”

Suddenly, he’s grabbing her arm. “Hey. Capulet. Look, you don’t owe me anything.”

Rolling her eyes, she says, “You’re right, I don’t. Don’t worry, I’m still not sure what to make of you, don’t particularly trust you, and you’ll never be on my favourite person list, Montague. But you possibly saving my life, the least I can do is get you some clean clothes.”

Nodding, he lets go. “Thank you.”

…

After she drops the clothes off at Montague’s flat, she goes to a bar, and of course, Romeo would be at a bar near his cousin’s place.

This, after all, is her life.

“Detective Capulet,” he greets. “Were you at my cousin’s?”

“Just to thank him,” she answers.

“Huh.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Surprising.”

Ordering a Scotch and Soda, she notes, “Even before your cousin came into the picture, you’ve had a problem with me.”

“Yes,” he answers. “But it’s the same with you. So, how about we leave there?”

Handing the bartender some money, she sips her drink.

Romeo stands, and she asks, “If your cousin weren’t FBI, would you have defended him as hard as you have been?”

Sighing, he sits back down. “You know, I had this kid for a client once. A suicidal neo-Nazi. I’ve had cases I wished to God I didn’t have to take. I’ve had clients I would have been happy if they’d dropped dead. What gets me through them is the fact that I truly believe a free society can’t exist if the guilty aren’t innocent until proven otherwise. That requires people willing to fight on their behalf.”

“But this kid, he wasn’t one of them. I helped him, he got out of all of that, and he’s doing much better. You, though, I imagine you’d always judge him on his past.”

“My parents died when I was thirteen,” she informs him. “My sister had just turned ten. My aunt and uncle were horrible to both of us, but me especially. I’ve cried myself to sleep numerous times. And yet, through all that, I never decided to join a hate group, get pregnant at sixteen, do drugs, or any of the other horrible and/or stupid things that people always seem to have an excuse for doing.”

“Good for you,” he says. “When I was sixteen, there was this girl, and-” He laughs. “It’s- something that I can’t even think of her last name. But this girl, I was in love with her. When she moved away, I was genuinely suicidal.”

Startled, she looks over.

“And my cousin, who wanted nothing but to be left alone to work on his art and likely thought I was being a shallow, selfish, narcissistic idiot, he was there for me. He shadowed me every second he could, always made sure there weren’t knives or pills I could easily get my hands on, he even insisted on sleeping in bed with me so that he’d know if I got up during the night. And soon enough, it passed.”

He shakes his head. “So many kids, they suffer heartbreak, and they just can’t believe that, with a little time, it’ll fade. Their emotions can be so intense and consuming. I don’t know if he understood this, or if he planned to keep doing all of this for possible years. But once I got over it, it didn’t take long to convince him, and to this day, he’s never, ever brought any of it up. He’s never treated me any differently.”

“That’s who Benvolio is, detective. Part of the reason he’s so good at his job is the fact that, for all he condemns the views certain people have, he has a genuine interest in finding out what causes them. He tries to truly understand other people. You’re always going to judge people like that kid I helped. But worse, even knowing Benvolio isn’t like what you were led to believe, you’re always going to judge my cousin for who you thought he was.”

Rosaline sighs.

To say the FBI hasn’t always been big on civil rights would be an understatement. Like her, Romeo has white relatives besides his cousin, including his father. Her paternal grandparents were both mixed, and out of them came her black father and white uncle. Her aunt loved her father, but for a variety of reasons, including race, she’d married his brother instead.

For Romeo, it might be easier to assume people are often more misguided than anything and that hate can often be neutralised by learning and kindness.

She realises she honestly has no idea how Benvolio Montague feels about black people outside of his cousin. She knows there is a possibility his antagonism towards her could have been solely to keep his cover.

What she isn’t going to say to Romeo is: His cousin is a dangerous man. He might not be a threat to innocent people of colour, he might not be a threat to any innocent civilian, but she saw the look in his eyes immediately after he shot the man, and it confirmed what she’s always known.

There is a darkness to him.

Worse, she now knows, if this darkness is ever fully realised, justice may not come for him, after all.

“I’m heading home,” Romeo says. “Do you need a ride?”

“That was water?”

“Sprite,” he answers. “I was going to meet someone and drive her out to the lake, but she cancelled.”

“You Montagues aren’t having much luck with lady friends, tonight, are you,” she comments. “Um, yes, a ride would be nice, thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter will be Livia's POV.


End file.
